


Not Without You

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF!John, BDSM, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-con BDSM, Torture, handjob, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been kidnapped. Will John reach him in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Without You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Detectivelyd](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/24939) by Detectivelyd. 



> This piece was inspired by a piece of art by detectivelyd, linked here, though you do need to friend her on livejournal to see the whole piece. 
> 
> I am certain this has very little to do with what the artist intended, but it is what my brain did. 
> 
> Please note: Obviously you would never take someone immediately from a hostage or kidnap situation into a BDSM or sex scene. This is fiction, a fantasy, and not meant to be taken too seriously. I hope you enter into this with a willing suspension of disbelief and that you enjoy it for the porn it is.
> 
> I'm not sure all of this needs specific tagging, but just so people are aware, this piece contains kidnapping, non-con pain/torture/groping, non-consensual use of crop, cane, slapping, punching, and vague references to sex trafficking.
> 
> The established D/s relationship is johnlock with top!John, and that is consensual. There is brief reference to knife play, but it isn’t graphically present in this fic.
> 
> If anyone thinks of anything else I should add to the tags, let me know.
> 
> Beta-ed as always by the delightful mistresskikishiphassailed. Many thanks!

“The boss says we can have a bit of fun. That it will be fun to watch you dance.” Deep voice, slight northern accent.  Definitely enjoying taunting. Sherlock heard footsteps moving away from him and a drag of metal on concrete, as the one who had spoken pulled over a chair.

 

Sherlock had managed to struggle in just the right way to shift the blindfold as they were tying him up, but he could only see two of the three captors in the dim light of the warehouse, before they forced it back in place. He had taken in enough of the room around him to confirm that he was where he thought. Not that it helped him now, trussed up as he was.  He certainly couldn’t reach his phone to text the location of the warehouse, even if he had still been wearing his coat or trousers. The air had been warmer than he expected for the setting and season, but he had spotted a space heater to his left.  Unfortunately not the kind that would hurt one of these idiots if they were pushed into it.  He supposed that would have been too much to ask.

 

It wasn’t long after that they began hurting him. Two alternated, toying with him, feeding off one another.  They were used to working together.  Yes, it had looked like the marks of two different assailants on the last corpse.  The bruising patterns were definitely anti-mortem. So, these two then. Interesting. The taller of the two held a riding crop and the shorter one wielded some sort of cane.  The head of the crop too large, the cane too stiff and slightly thicker. Not ours from the flat, then.

 

His third captor primarily watched, and clearly enjoyed what he saw, judging by his breathing and the occasional shifting in his seat as though he were adjusting his pants.  Now and then Sherlock heard pictures being taken and the click of keys, likely sending them on to the boss. Blows rained down on his back, shoulders, inner thighs.  Occasionally one of them would walk to the front, aiming for his chest or thighs.  Aiming for discomfort, not physical damage.  Sherlock began systematically shutting down.  He was adept at transmuting pain into something else entirely, riding the waves into a kind of blissful high.  But that would be reckless here. He couldn’t escape his bonds, so he simply went away, anywhere but here, fleeing into his mind.

 

For the better part of the first hour of their ministrations, he had been able to lock down on the sensations, distract himself.  Unfortunately, his mind was not the refuge it usually provided.

_Stupid. Shouldn’t have let this happen, should have known they would… well, maybe not this exactly, but something._

 

He had been in his Mind Palace, unaware of his surroundings, trying so hard to solve the case, when they had taken him.

 

It had been 12 hours already. Four hours spent between the abduction and travelling in the boot of a car, tracking the sounds and time to approximate where he was being taken.  One hour of being unloaded, striped and looked over, hustled through hallways and down flights of stairs. He heard them talking about others, but it was clear they were not in this facility.  Another building nearby, it seemed, but not here.  Then he had been stuck in a room, thankfully unbound. Five paces long and four wide, it hadn’t taken him long to assess his meager cell. He found absolutely nothing with which to make any attempt at escape.  Having been up for 36 hours before the abduction, he did fade in and out of sleep. He awoke shivering and spluttering, having been doused with water.  Judging by the quality of the sunlight filtering in through the high windows when they came to get him, he had spent more or less six hours in the cell.

 

Then, he had been dragged here.

 

If he had worked it faster, they would already be in custody.  If he hadn’t ordered John out of the house, they wouldn’t have been able to take him so easily. _Stupidstupidstupid._ The what ifs circled in his head, in a way he seldom let them.

 

At last, one of them got frustrated with Sherlock’s quiet passivity and bit his shoulder, hard enough to break through the skin, that was the end of his resolve.  Sherlock cried out.  He couldn’t tune out so completely and began to worry what they might try if he did. He felt the blows more keenly now, his tenacity not to react wearing thin. They wanted to watch him break down.  What would they do if they didn’t get it?  As soon as he let go, and began to react, it was better. The one with the crop stopped pushing quite so hard. He let the sensations burn away the speculation, guilt and frustration.

 

Midway into the second hour, they took a break, letting him sag in his bonds. They even gave him a drink of water, though they splashed nearly as much of it on his chest as went in his mouth.  They joked about giving him another sort of drink, but the Watcher, as Sherlock had begun to think of him, said no.  More accurately, he said that “The Boss says if any of you do anything so boring as touching him with your filthy prick or one drop of your cum, he will have you made into shoes before the day is out.’ If you need to go have a toss or go get one of the girls to help you out, have at. Not this one.”

 

Well, that cleared a few things up.  For one, rape wasn’t on the agenda, which was a curious kind of relief. And two, the boss was Moriarty on this one as well.  Splendid.  That also meant that they weren’t just taking their time before killing him.  It was clear that Moriarty wanted him alive or he would be dead by now and these idiots would never be allowed that honor.

 

They resumed, with a more hands-on approach, alternating between slapping, punching.  

Standard enough fair in his experiences.  Kidnapped and tortured was not a new thing.  He had built a very particular wall around his masochism.  There were triggers to let go, to react, to enjoy.  To actually feel. _Home,  John.  Not here, not with these imbeciles._

 

But he was tired. Sherlock thought it was into the third hour that his resolve finally broke. As they alternated between sexual stimulation and pain, his body had begun to betray him. It wasn’t right. Bruised, bitten, beaten, he shouldn’t respond, but exhausted as he was, he couldn’t suppress the quickening of his breath, the hardening of his prick. They taunted him, teased him.  Did his pet soldier truss him up like this? Drawing the ropes up just enough to bring him to full standing, with shouts of “Attention!” followed by their jeering laughter. It was all a joke to them, but they didn’t believe it, not really.  They just enjoyed taunting him.

 

They didn’t know the hours he spent on his knees, begging for John to touch him or let him touch himself.  How often his scarf covered bite marks frighteningly like the ones they had inflicted. If they had abducted him a month ago, he would still have had J. W. carved with surgical precision on his inner thigh. By now the marks had faded, but he still knew to whom he belonged. So let them taunt and tease.  He relaxed his stomach muscles slowly, using all the remaining control he had. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Not of tears, nor coming.

The tallest of them backhanded him, a starburst of pain flaring over his cheekbone. The pain brought him out of his thoughts. Back to this place, this moment.   

 

The taller one spit on him, just as the commotion began in the hallway.  Couple of shots and a shout sent everyone running.

 

He was alone for the first time in hours.  There wasn’t enough play in the rope to get untied, especially not with his wrists bound down to the thick leather cuffs on his thighs.  Metal handcuffs he could escape as a last resort.  It wouldn’t be the first time he broke his thumb.  But the leather was infuriating.  Too soft for that kind of pressure, yet to tight to slip.

 

Still robbed of his sight, he could only listen for what was going on. There had been the distinct footsteps of four men before the scuffing began. Blows were exchanged.  

 

When the tumult stopped, Sherlock heard the sounds of someone dragging something heavy. Then clanking, similar to when they had trussed him here. After a few minutes, he heard a tread he would recognize anywhere. Slight favoring of one leg. Well, it had been a rough day.  Sherlock released the breath he had been holding, calling out, “John? I’m here and I’m fine. John?”

 

“Sherlock!”  John called out, then paused, his breath sharp as he took in the scene before him. He walked toward Sherlock, explaining, “They’ve all been taken out.  One dead, the guard out front. Idiot inside missed me and got his own man. Another shot in the leg, but he’ll live.  The rest are out cold, all trussed up with their own kit. It was right there, and well, had to make sure they weren’t going to try anything if they came to, right?  So I assure you,” he said, stroking one hand down Sherlock’s cheek, “You are quite safe now.” Sherlock could feel the familiar cotton of John’s shirt.  He smelled the particular mix of tea and soap and home. Relief washed over him.  

 

He started to untie him, but Sherlock moaned his name. “John… please,”

  
John continued checking over his injuries and the bonds with great tenderness and care but he smiled to himself. “Near as I can figure, we still have about twenty minutes before Lestrade, and the team, arrive.  However should we pass the time?” Sherlock let out a shuddering breath as John slid his hand down Sherlock’s tight pants, cupping his hardness. “Please, John. Don’t let them find me like this.  I need…”

 

“I know what you need, Sherlock. Did thinking of me make this easier? Or are you such a painslut now that anyone can do this to you?” Aiming to make him laugh but Sherlock keened, a pained, regretful sound.  “Sh, sh, now, don’t worry, Love. I shouldn’t tease you like that. You can’t help what your body needs.”  John’s words soothed him, while his hands were busy stroking Sherlock’s cock. “And I know how responsive you are. You held out so long, didn’t you.  You could scarcely take it anymore. And now you don’t have to.” With his other hand he pressed into one of the bruises, hard.  He may not have been the one to inflict it, but his touch made Sherlock’s pain suddenly his as he gave permission, “I’m here.” He stroked faster as he whispered, “Come for me.  Can you do that for me? Be a good boy. Now.”

 

Sherlock groaned and shook as he came all over his stomach and John’s hand.   “There, now.  That’s better, isn’t it?” John said, as he scraped the side of his hand along Sherlock’s belly and brought his hand to Sherlock’s mouth.  “Now clean up your mess.” Sherlock’s tongue darted out, lapping up his own cum.  When he had cleaned up to John’s satisfaction, it was time to begin unbuckling and untying, all the while still soothing Sherlock. “That’s right. Let’s get you down from there.” He widened his stance, bracing Sherlock against him as he slowly lowered the ropes, guiding Sherlock to the floor. They stayed there, John just holding him for a few moments.  

By the time the team arrived, John had found Sherlock’s clothes. He wore his trousers and shoes. John would have let him put the shirt on as well, but he knew forensics would want to swab the bite marks and scratches and the med team would need to look him over.  Nasty places, human mouths.  Sherlock would need to be well tended.  “Good thing he has his doctor”, Lestrade had said. John smirked at that, but it was true.  He would take very good care of him.

 

Of course when all this was over and Sherlock had healed, he was going to mark him every place they had touched, reclaiming what was his, healing what they did in a different way.

But for now, it was enough to see him dressed and calm.  Looking perfectly Sherlock. The stoic, efficient mask firmly in place.


End file.
